Jasmine Absolute

1

Tuesday, Sept. 14, 7:15 a.m.

Skippadoo.

It’s a word that I made up. I don’t really know where it came from, but it fits.

It’s my word for when I feel totally satisfied and in the moment—physically, financially, socially and sexually. All right, especially sexually.

That word is how I describe what I feel when I wake up next to Kahlil. That feeling of absolute bliss, when you get that first sensation that the warm body you feel next to yours when you open your eyes to greet another morning—that warm body is your man. That muscular chest and arms, those legs that you’ve draped your own legs over in the middle of the night, that little something extra in his shorts in the morning that you try to pretend your thigh doesn’t notice. That is your man.

Skippadoo. Ooh, skippa-damn-doo. Whew. Anyway…

I had gotten into a routine whenever Kahlil stayed over of getting up a little early with him, especially on work days. It was our special time before we started our day, to talk about whatever was on our minds, and to get ourselves jump-started to take on the day. And I definitely needed jump-starting today.

It was The Day. The dreaded, ugly, Lord-help-me-not-lose-my-dang-mind day that most people call Tuesday.

I work for an advertising company, Miller & Brookhaven, LLP. Have no idea what the LLP is about. A coworker explained it to me once, but I can’t remember. Anyway, I’ve been blessed enough to work my way up over the past four years to be an art director there. Not bad for a twenty-eight year-old. It’s my job to help turn the marketing ideas of our clients into real advertisements: newspaper and magazine ads, posters on the sides of buses, billboards, whatever they need.

The worst, though, is TV spots. And that’s why I hate Tuesdays.

I’ve gotten into a pretty good relationship with a video production company called Will to Power Video Solutions. Sounds like some kind of militant political group, but they’re actually named after the owner, William Power. He thought it would be a cute play on words. I’ve worked it out with Will to Power that we would always schedule video shoots for my clients on Tuesdays.

Like most people, I used to think that shooting something for TV would be like the sexiest, most popular kind of job you could get. All my friends would be jealous: "Ooh, girl, you shoot TV commercials?" And there are worse things that I could be doing, but sometimes, it’s a nightmare. A complete nightmare.

And so it shall be today, because I’m shooting a commercial with Daniel Lynch.

Daniel is a client of mine who owns a car dealership in Alpharetta. We met three years ago after I totaled my baby, a ’99 Mazda 626. My budget was stretched as far as it would go, and I didn’t see how I was going to afford a new car, but he gave me a fantastic deal on a year-old 626. Eight thousand dollars. I still can’t believe he gave me that kind of break, but he must have seen the desperation in my eyes that day. I really believe God sent me where I needed to go for help, and Daniel came through. I promised him that I would help him advertise his business any way I could. And here we are, two campaigns and four commercials later.

Unfortunately, although Daniel is the sweetest man anyone could meet, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a high school dropout. And when we’re trying to get him to read copy for a commercial, or get him to take instruction that’s even a little bit technical, let’s just say it shows. A lot. Yeah, stay in school kids.

After whining to myself for a minute about what day it was, I turned over to poke Kahlil awake.

And he was looking right at me.

Mmm-hmm, he said, with his eyes narrowed and his mouth curled up in the corner, like he was my dad and had just caught me stealing a cookie.

What? I said, trying not to give him the satisfaction that he had scared the crap out of me, but my voice was too high and gave me away.

You’re doing it again. That’s what I’m talking about. You gotta let that job go, girl.

Shut up, I said. I couldn’t help but let a little smile come through. He knew me too well.

My man.

Last night we had talked over wine and some old Earth, Wind and Fire records about me letting the job occupy too much of my mind, and keep me away from doing other things in life that I want to do—things like a nonprofit community center that I’ve been trying to get off the ground for two years. But I keep trying to tell Kahlil that just because you have dreams for the future doesn’t mean you don’t have responsibilities today. Even if that means working with Daniel Lynch on a commercial.

I’m serious, Jazz, he said. He always gets me when he calls me that. You gotta live. If you want to open the youth center, save up some startup money—and that means you gotta stop buying so many Twinkies and grande caramel latte whatevers from Starbucks—and get the hell out of that place.

Yeah, yeah, you’re talking like Mr. Big over here. Did you ever talk to David?

Oh, see, why are you in my business? he joked, trying to be evasive.

It’s my business too, sir.

Yes, I talked to him, he admitted with a sly smile. He’s talking to the mayor today, and he’ll see what he can do.

I sat up in the bed and pumped my fist in the air. Yes! Then I did my best cabbage-patch dance right there in the bed. Kahlil wasn’t impressed. He was even less impressed by me chanting, We’re gonna meet the mayor! We’re gonna meet the mayor!

"Hey, hold up, now! He told me we can’t go getting our hopes up. He’ll see what he can do."

Kahlil has known David Price since elementary school, and they reconnected a couple years ago at their fifteen-year high school reunion. David owns a grocery store just outside downtown Atlanta, and he has gotten to be good friends with Mayor Charles Duboise. David was going to see if he could score us a couple of tickets to the Mayor’s Annual Gala, on November 13th. We’re probably crazy, but our master plan is to somehow get close enough to the mayor to discuss getting his support for my plans for the community center, and to see if he can cut through some of the red tape Kahlil has dealt with in opening a new nightclub with a couple of his friends. I doubt we’ll get anywhere near Duboise, and if we do, his bodyguards will be happy to pistol-whip us to the parking lot. But we can still fantasize.

We showered and got dressed for Terrible Tuesday. As I was brushing my teeth, I gave myself a good long look in the mirror, trying as hard as I could to get pumped up for the day ahead. I took a quick assessment of the girl staring back at me. Not horrible. Just shy of five foot-seven. My dark brown skin doesn’t have too many blemishes that a good Stridex scrubbing once in a while can’t correct. Pretty slender body—for now; my friends at the office keep telling me that I’m right around the corner from having the pounds just jump on me from nowhere. My boobs are a nice medium size—thirty-six B—just enough to get me attention if and only if I want it. My wavy hair hangs down almost to my shoulder, or would, if it I had remembered to wrap it up after Kahlil and I finished last night. Now I’ve got to deal with bigtime bed-head before I leave. All in all, though, I was feeling pretty cute. At least that was one positive for the day.

I heard my cell phone vibrate hard against the countertop. It was a text message from Meeka: Got some juicy news about a sorority sister. We have to talk later—MH.

Shimeeka Howard has been one of my best friends since high school. She likes for most people to just call her Meeka. The text didn’t surprise me; Meeka’s got juicy news on just about everybody these days, since she started working as a TV news reporter last year. She hasn’t gotten a lot of big stories yet, but she’s working her way up, slowly but surely. As usual, when it comes to her juicy news, I don’t want to know; I don’t want police or drug dealers coming to my door thinking I know something. Let me live my little ignorant, plain life, thank you.

***

It may be my upbringing, but I always feel self-conscious leaving my condo in the morning with Kahlil. I might as well open my door and go, Hey everybody, I’m not married to this dude, but we just spent the night doing the nasty! It’s just…I don’t know, weird. Thankfully, it looked like this morning the coast was clear. Not a soul in the hallway, from my door to the elevator.

Unfortunately, Barbara’s door is just before the elevator. It opened just in time for her to see us happily heading out in the afterglow of…well, whatever she was thinking.

Nothing like withering under the hot lights of somebody’s imagination.

Jasmine, hi! Barbara said, with her trademark wide smile. Barbara was white, somewhere in her mid-sixties, and a widow. From what I’ve been able to tell over the years, she’s led quite a life, and is happy to settle down in her quiet little condo with her cat, Sonny. She’s also been like a second mom to me, so having her see me leave with Kahlil is like, ewww.

Hey, I choked out, and we proceeded to stand there for what felt like three years.

Hi Kahlil, she said, finally. I could hear the "you guys just did the nasty" in her voice, and I just about died.

How you doing, Barbara? Kahlil said politely. I mentally shoved him toward the elevator.

Barbara turned back to me. I’ll see you at the meeting tonight, right? We’ve gotta get that fundraiser going, or those kids are gonna scream bloody murder come Christmas. Our homeowners’ association usually sponsors a big holiday drive at the end of the year for underprivileged kids. I was the HOA president until last year; thank goodness that’s off my plate.

Yes, I’ll be there…oh wait, Barbara. I can’t come tonight. It’s my game night, remember?

Game night? Come on, those kids are counting on us, she said with a devious grin, trying to coax me.

No, Barbara. You know I have to have my game night, now. Especially tonight. I’ve got to shoot with Daniel today.

Barbara threw up her hand. She immediately understood. "Oh Lord, never mind. You do need game night. You might need two to get over that guy. Do you know about Daniel?" she asked Kahlil, with the weight of all the Daniel Lynch stories I’ve told her in her voice.

Oh yeah, I think everybody knows about Daniel, he replied, chuckling.

Well, tell those HOA folks to stop scheduling meetings on Tuesday, I said to Barbara.

I know, Barbara said. ‘Jasmine’s got to have her game night.’ I know if I tell them it’s Daniel Lynch, they’ll let you skip. ‘Oh, yeah, yeah…shit, let her have her game night. It’s Daniel Lynch.’ We all laughed hysterically. Anyway, we’ll hold down the fort for you. You guys enjoy yourselves.

Thanks, Barbara. See ya.

Bye. Byyyye, Kahlil. She knew exactly what she was doing. I turned and shot her a playful ‘shame on you’ look as we headed to the elevator. She returned it: Shame on me? Shame on you, Miss Hussy.

Right at that second, as if I wasn’t embarrassed enough, I tripped going into the elevator. Yep, boom, right down on my knees. Kahlil was too busy laughing to catch me, and every private feminine item I own spilled out of my purse. I’m sitting there on the floor of the elevator--among lord knows what kind of germs--scrambling for tampons and lipstick before people show up, like I’m in the cash-grab chamber on a game show. I guess that’s what I get for ragging on Daniel Lynch.

Man, I hate Tuesdays.

2

Tuesday, Sept. 14, 7:45 a.m.

All right, Javier Maldanado finally said, once he was reasonably certain that a heart attack wasn’t imminent, I think I can move now.

He had spent the last four and a half minutes lying on his back in the bed, waiting for his heart rate and breathing to return to normal. Though he didn’t want to let his wife know it, Javier was a bit of a hypochondriac, and his annual physical was coming up tomorrow. He would always get a little more conscious of his body around this time, especially of his heart. One could usually tell it was physical time for Javier by the amount of time he spent with his fingers at either side of his throat, checking his pulse.

This had been a particularly strenuous workout for him. He was used to wild morning sex with Denise before, but today she seemed especially giving and, as few chances as they get to make love so passionately—the kids were sound asleep after their late night of watching a double feature of Kung Fu Panda and Tooth Fairy—he was going to go for it, even if it caused him a little concern afterward. Small price to pay for an explosive session like that.

He glanced over at Denise. Her back was turned to him, and she had her head propped up with one hand. He took a moment to enjoy the view. His beautiful wife. Her long mane of dark brown curls flowed down her shoulders and forearm. The delicate little bumps of her spine traveled sensually down the light brown skin of her back, and under the pale yellow sheet. Javier suddenly recalled the talk he had had with a couple of buddies at lunch, where they tried to discern—with the kind of careful thought and meticulous examination that is usually reserved for a debate at a social scientists’ conference—what it was about a woman’s naked back that was such a turn-on. They came to the conclusion that it indicated that they were getting something forbidden, or naughty, and that because of the nature of the bra, a naked back naturally suggested a naked front, which was where the goodies were. The naked back was a suggestive invitation to the party in the front. Javier smiled at the immaturity of the thoughts, even though they held some truth for him.

He pulled himself up and peered over her shoulder. She was staring at a picture, a 5-by-7 picture in a frame, of a seven year-old boy, brown hair, deep dimples, wearing a black pullover. The merest hint of a white shirt peeked over the collar. The boy was staring back and smiling amid a background of blue velvet drapery and a matching Ottoman. A typical school photo.

Javier felt a pang of empathy shoot through him. She’s at it again, he thought. He immediately knew that he had to nip this in the bud before the whole day went to pot. He came up with the perfect way to take her mind off it. At least a part of him came up with it.

Hey, he said tenderly, stroking her shoulder. Ready for round two?

To his surprise, he felt her body relax. He saw the corner of her mouth crinkle. She was smiling that sexy smile, the smile that said that he had broken her barriers. Maybe, she cooed. Is your heart ready for round two?

Heart, lungs, spleen, everything.

She finally turned around and kissed him. She kissed him with the passion of their first kiss, that night after seeing Titanic at the Cinema N’ Drafthouse.

She rolled on top of him.

He rolled on top of her.

He was ready to seal the deal.

Then she noticed the clock.

Holy shit! Seven forty-five? We’ve got to get up!

Javier was already up, so to speak. It’s OK. It’s OK. A quickie? Come on.

No. No no. We’ve got to get the kids ready. They’re going to be late. Alexandria has the field trip today. Shit! She jumped out of bed, and began scooping up the clothes that they had stripped off in lustful frenzy the night before.

Javier continued to lay there in stunned silence. That was another thing that he and his buddies had talked about at lunch: the amazing, almost superhuman ability of the human female to turn off all sexual desire, like a light switch, and focus on the duties of the day. It was unbelievable. This is freaking sex, Javier thought. If the house were on fire, he wouldn’t get up until he was done; he might speed up a little, but he wouldn’t get out until the mission was completed.

Reluctantly, he rolled himself off the bed, and grabbed the clothes that were on his side.

Hurry up! Denise urged. Get some clothes on and wake up the kids. I’ll go jump in the shower.

Yeah, yeah, Javier grumbled through his frustration. I’ll go get—

As if on cue, the door swung open, and Alexandria and Alexia, seven year-old twin girls, stood behind it, gawking at their naked parents.

Denise took a sudden step backward, her arms flailing, as if she had been stung by a bee. She shot a look at Javier. I thought you locked it! she whispered angrily.

Javier, whose heart felt like it had plummeted to his stomach, just stood there like a statue, his mouth agape, perhaps hoping that the girls wouldn’t notice. He took offense at Denise’s accusation. Lock the door? I did lock the door! In his head he quickly went through the entire sequence of events last night after he and Denise got into the bedroom:

Close door.

Lots of kissing.

Plop on the bed.

More kissing.

Bare breasts.

You better go lock the door, she said.

More kissing.

Gotta go to the bathroom first. I’ll lock the door on the way back. Get undressed.

Went to bathroom.

Straight back to bed and to the boobs…

Ah, Crap.

Hey there, guys, Javier said to the girls, enthusiastically. Um…whatcha doin’?

You’re naked, Alexia choked out.

Yes, yes, you’re right, we are. We are naked, and…trying on some clothes.

Denise looked at him. Really? That’s what you’re going with? Then she looked back at her puzzled daughters. I guess I don’t have anything better. She snapped a smile on her face. That’s right. We are trying on clothes. Remember when we went shopping on Saturday? Can’t know if they fit if you don’t try them on, right?

Where are the new clothes? Alexandria asked.

Javier paused a moment, then patted himself on the back for only taking a moment. They’re…in the family room. Which is why we’re naked. You know, we go to put our clothes on, and we’re like, ‘What the heck? Where are those darn clothes?’ Then we go ‘Uh-oh, family room.’ So, can you go out and get them for us, please?

The twins continued to stare briefly, then turned and headed down the hallway. As they disappeared around a corner, they burst into giggles. I saw his penis, Alexia said.

Denise turned to Javier, her face unsure whether to show disdain or amusement.

’I saw his penis,’ she repeated. I hope you hear that in your head for the rest of your life. Javier only had a sheepish look to offer her in return. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Lock the damn door, booby-man.

***

Breakfast for the Maldanados was an exercise in speed and efficiency. Denise usually fixed the kids the same thing each morning: toast, eggs and bacon. Alexandria was the less finicky of the twins; she would go through her entire breakfast in four minutes flat, without a peep. On the other hand, Denise and Javier had yet to figure out what controlled Alexia’s mood from one day to the next. Today she might love eggs; tomorrow, they’re disgusting.

Javier would walk the girls to the corner each morning and get them aboard the school bus, then return to help Denise clean up the dishes before they headed off to their jobs as real estate brokers. They both worked at Greyson Realtors, and though they were two of the best brokers in the company—co-workers had dubbed them The Magnificent Maldanados—a bigger house in the suburbs just didn’t seem to suit them. They agreed long ago that a condo downtown would put them in the center of the action, even if they had to raise kids in the rather cramped space.

Fred wasn’t downstairs again, Javier said as he entered the kitchen.

Great, Denise sighed as she scraped the last of Alexia’s eggs into the trash. You might as well just put out an invitation: ‘Come on in, criminals of Atlanta. No security here.’ Fred Hobson was the lobby security guard for the condo building. For the past year, he had had a history of being chronically late, sometimes by as much as three hours, leaving the security post downstairs completely unmanned. Complaints and reprimands to him were met with every excuse in the book.

I don’t know, Javier said. We’ve got that meeting tonight. Maybe you can bring it up again. We’ve got to do something.

Denise washed her hands and dabbed them dry with a dish towel. Well, I can’t do it. I’m showing off the Miller house tonight, remember?

Oh, yeah. Well, I don’t know how you feel about it, but I’m not exactly pleased with how Allison’s doing, Javier said. Allison Hawthorne was the Homeowners Association president. She was a longtime resident of the condo, but at 77, she had many health issues, and compared to the success, popularity and likability of the previous, much-younger president, Allison left many residents cold. She’s a nice lady, but she just doesn’t seem to be doing what we need. I guess I’m just spoiled from having Jasmine do it for so long. She’s young, but she definitely had her act together.

Denise was putting her lipstick on, using the small window over the sink as a mirror. Yeah, I guess.

I wish we could get her back. You have any idea why she quit?

Uh-uh, Denise said tersely.

Javier checked his watch. Oops. Gotta go. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and pecked Denise on the cheek, so as not to mess up the lipstick. He’d had the riot act read to him about that before. I’ll stop by Allison’s on the way out and see if she can bring the Fred problem up tonight. Love you.

Bye. The door clicked as Javier left.

Denise tossed the lipstick into her purse, and shook her head. As she strode to the door, she wondered why the sudden flash of anger had overcome her. Then she realized: Javier had uttered the only word that could get under her skin and start her day off on the wrong foot:

Jasmine.

3

Tuesday, Sept. 14, 11:28 a.m.

All right, Take Twenty-two, Morris, the camera assistant, said.

Take twenty-freakin’-two.

I have to give Daniel Lynch credit, though. Even though he was tired himself, and even though he knew that almost everybody on the set wanted to throw him through a window by now, he put on a big smile and got ready to do his thing.

For the twenty-second time.

Action, the director, Steve, called.

Hi, it’s your old brothy Danny here! That’s right, I’ve escaped once again, to give—

Cut! Steve yelled.

Daniel dropped his head, and smiled a little bit. It was probably more of a nervous, please don’t eff me up, Steve smile than it was a smile of amusement. Heck, I was the one who got him into commercials, and I was ready to eff him up.

You know what you did, right? Steve said, trying his best to be patient.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I was trying to do ‘buddy’ and ‘brother’ at the same time, and it just…my tongue stopped working. I’m sorry.

Stay in school, kids.

Steve asked a production assistant to get Daniel a glass of water. Daniel was strapped into a strait jacket and was standing in front of a green screen. In this commercial campaign, he’s supposed to have been locked up in a mental hospital for offering so many crazy-ass deals. We were showing him back at the dealership in each new commercial, because he’s apparently escaped just so he could come back and offer more crazy deals. At the end, a couple of guys come and take him back to the hospital. The effects guys were going to add a shot of his car dealership behind him later. Simple, typical, thirty-second used car salesman pitch. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to shoot.

Unless it’s Daniel Lynch. In which case it takes ninety minutes.

We started at ten. I was hoping to be back at the office by eleven. It was eleven thirty-five, and we still didn’t have a take we could use. Everything that could have happened, happened, from a light stand falling, to Daniel walking on and struggling in his strait jacket when he didn’t have a strait jacket on, to him offering a deal on a 2005 Cadillac Escalator. It was brutal.

Here we go again. Take Twenty-five, the camera assistant said.

Action, Steve said.

And from somewhere, like a bolt of grace from Heaven, Daniel Lynch actually did it.

Hi, it’s your old buddy Danny here! That’s right, I’ve escaped once again, to give you some of the best deals in Atlanta, like my 2010 Ford Fusion, my 2005 Cadillac Escalade, my 2007 Toyota Camry, and lots more. So come on by Danny’s Certified Auto Sales. He crouched and looked around. Quick, before they find me again! Then he ran off the set, followed by a couple of guys in white coats, yelling, Get him, he’s still certifiable!

And cut, Steve yelled.

Hallelujah.

The whole set burst into applause. I looked at my watch. Eleven fifty. We were supposed to shoot three commercials today for this campaign, but now there’s no time left, so we’ll have to reschedule it. Typical Daniel Lynch scenario.

After he thanked everyone on the set for their hard work and patience, I heard Steve mutter to an assistant, Somebody get me a freakin’ drink.

Jeff Harris, another art director for Miller and Brookhaven, came up to me. He’s been responsible for the overall look of this campaign. The exhausted smile on his face said it all. Well, we knew it wasn’t going to be easy,

Yeah, I said, a little noncommittally. I didn’t like the way the shoot had gone either, but as the project director and Daniel’s sort-of friend, I felt like Daniel needed at least one person in the room who wasn’t scurrying away to a corner of the set to laugh and make snide comments about what a lunkhead Daniel Lynch was. As it was, I had to cut my eyes away from at least five people who walked by me with the same sympathy smile: you know, the tight-lipped smile with the raised eyebrows. The smile that says "ah, well…sucks to be you! Bye!"

You going to lunch? Jeff asked.

I suppose I should, at this point. You meeting Gary at Tango Pete’s?

Of course, baby doll. I need to decompress. Jeff and Gary were partners, and not in a business or on a project. Jeff was one of the first gay people I had ever met in my life. I was brought up believing and hearing all kinds of weird stuff about gay people, but Jeff has had my back practically since I walked in the door at M & B, so the least I could do is show him the same respect. There are some things about it that I still think are weird, but hey, if he needs to find love by hooking up with a dude, that’s his prerogative. You know we have to get back to the office by two, though, for that meeting, he reminded.

Oh yeah, I forgot about that, I said. Do you have any idea what it’s about? Is it about Kelly?

Oh, I’m sure it’s about Kelly. I’ll be interested to see what kind of spin they put on it, because you know they’re not gonna tell the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway.

Well, it might not be some big scandal. Maybe she just got laid off. She said herself, after that guy Horace in her department got laid off back in June, that she could be next.

"We’ll see. They might even be announcing more layoffs. I already told you what I’d do if they lay me off. I’m just gonna snap and get crazy. I’m gonna come up here the next day in a diaper or something, and start tasing people. Just left and right, boy, just zzzzt! He lunged as if he was tasing someone. People running all over the place, Dave trying to dive over the desk with his fat ass: ‘I’m gon’ call 911!’ Oh, no you’re not, Dave! Zzzzt! I’ll be on the news running from the cops out in the street, wearing a diaper, and making baby noises and tasing pedestrians! ‘Goo goo! I need my job back! Zzzt!’"

I was laughing so hard I almost couldn’t stand up. After the previous two hours, I really needed that.

Suddenly, in mid-laugh, I looked up and saw Daniel Lynch walking out of the dressing room and across the set. Toward me. While I was laughing. Great. I looked just like the other people in the room who were secretly picking on the guy. I tried to stop myself, cover my mouth, think about dead kittens, but I wasn’t getting serious fast enough. The best I could get myself down to by the time Daniel reached me was a big, wide drunk-person smile. I turned to Jeff. I’ll see you guys back at the office. Jeff nodded at Daniel, then left.

Daniel smiled politely. He was thirty-nine, about five-foot-nine, and was divorced. His light brown hair was starting to thin just a little bit near the front. He had these slight dimples that showed up when he smiled, right under the little crow’s feet that appeared at the corners of his eyes. He had a thick, muscular build, as if he had spent his life working hard for what he wanted. He reminded me of Sam Neill, from Jurassic Park. I never told him that, but it’s like, uncanny.

Well, I guess I blew another day, he said.

No! I protested, even though in my head I was going, Yes you did, my man! Yes, you did! It’s just…everybody has days where it’s just off, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Unfortunately for Daniel, it’s every day. I was leaving my condo this morning, and I tripped getting on the elevator. All my junk went flying out all over the place. So, it’s a crazy day for everybody.

"That’s one day for you, though. I can’t get up in front of those cameras no matter what day it is without screwing something up."

I had to fight my head to keep it from nodding off my neck. It’s not you, though. It’s what I keep trying to tell you. You have to relax. If you think you’re going to screw up, and you keep concentrating on how bad you think it might go, it’s gonna fall apart on you. You can do this.

I never knew what it was about these commercial shoots, but they always freaked him out. When I would visit him at the dealership, or talked to him on the phone, he was always extremely confident. He was polite, but he was firm when he had to be. I even heard him get downright pissed at an auto parts supplier one time. But for some reason, when he shot a commercial, Superman turned into Clark Kent really fast.

All right, we’ll keep at it, he said. So you’ll call me sometime in the next week or so to schedule the next commercial, right?

Right, I answered. If you don’t hear from me, just give me a call on my cell, and I’ll let you know what’s going on.

As he walked out of the studio, I thought, charming, good-looking guy, but you can’t spell charming good-looking guy without loony.

4

Tuesday, Sept. 14, 1:52 p.m.

I walked back into the office at 1:52 p.m., leaving me just enough time to drop by my desk and head up to the conference room where the big meeting was going to take place. M & B took up the top six floors of a new thirty-floor building in midtown. My office was on 23; the conference room was on 28.

Miller and Brookhaven, LLP, got its start in the late 1980s, at the height of Reagan-era growth and you-can-do-it capitalist optimism. At least, that’s what it says on our website. I was only six years old when the company was founded.

M & B is one of the few full-service advertising agencies in the city. We not only create ad campaigns for our clients, but also plan, research, place, and do follow-up testing for our ads. As more and more large businesses locate their home offices in the Southeast, the more they look for large companies here that can launch solid ad campaigns.

We do work both with national advertisers—brands like General Foods and Atlanta-based Coca-Cola—and with local advertisers, like the TV network affiliates and—Lord help me—car dealerships, including Danny’s Certified Auto Sales.

Jeff Harris and I work in the Creatives department, the part of the agency that comes up with the ideas for the actual ads that go in newspapers, magazines, and on TV. We work with the Account Management department to develop what’s called a Strategic Marketing Plan, which serves as the Holy Bible of any advertising campaign. Aside from Daniel’s campaigns, I’ve only been the lead creative person on one other project, a newspaper ad for SoKleen bath soap. I’ve had several clients comment on how pleased they were with my contributions, which is great, but it would be nice to get to be in the driver’s seat for something big—bigger than soap or used car sales.

I hadn’t been at my desk for ten seconds when I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw Tara Cooper staring back at me. Tara was a short girl, white, about twenty-four, with long auburn curls. She hid behind a pair of cat-lady glasses, but she was pretty attractive and, in spite of the clearly-posted sexual harassment policy in our office, I often overheard some of the guys making comments about her tight little body. Unfortunately for those guys, Tara was married to a former Falcons tight end, Chip Cooper, who was big enough to screw off any guy’s head and drink their blood like a soda pop.

Hey, Tara said, stepping in really close so only I could hear. I just wanted to give you a heads up. Ryan was on the phone just before he went upstairs to get ready for the meeting, and I was passing by his office. I heard your name come up.

Really? I asked, trying hard not to show the cold, white streak of terror that ran through my body in a tenth of a second. I quickly scanned the room, searching for someone who had overheard and could corroborate Tara’s heads-up. The place was nearly empty; they’ve all gone up for the meeting, except for our intern, Ashley. Cute, enthusiastic and eager, like all unsuspecting interns. Hard to believe that was me not too long ago. Ashley’s been cycling around all the departments in the agency to learn the ropes, and this week, it’s Creatives’ turn. Hopefully she won’t learn what it’s like to see me get canned.

What did he say? I asked, trying the reasonable route to calming my fear. Anytime someone’s name gets mentioned on the day of a meeting, people start to get nervous. It could be anything. Or, Ryan could be on the phone with Human Resources, planning the cruel, surprising method they would use to fire my behind.

I don’t know. I just wanted to let you know, Tara said. Then she walked off. She was a good friend, but that was news I didn’t need.

Sickening lump in the throat, take one.

***

I got to the conference room just in time to get one of the last empty seats up front. It wasn’t so much a conference room as a mini auditorium. You usually came here to be given information, rather than to engage in discussion.

There was a small podium set up at the front of the room, and behind it, Ryan was fiddling with a bunch of settings on a laptop. An overhead video projector was beaming the first slide of a PowerPoint presentation onto a large screen behind him. The slide had a picture of the M & B logo—simply the name of the company, followed by a trailing swoosh design—and underneath were the words Where We Are—And Where We’re Headed.

Sickening lump number two.

Ryan Hershey was about 45, nice-looking, and freshly tanned from a week in Florida. Hints of gray had started to show up all over his head of black hair. He had a wife, three kids, a dog, and no tolerance for bullshit. He was a fairly nice guy, but you didn’t want to have to tell him you couldn’t deliver on a project. Ryan oversaw the fourteen employees in Creatives, as well as the twenty-seven people in Account Management, the department which had the most contact with the clients. They ensured a client’s satisfaction as a campaign came along. Then there’s the ten people in Print Production, who work with us in Creatives to churn out newspaper and magazine mock-ups for clients, and actual ads for print media. We were all there, all eyes on Ryan, waiting like anxious turkeys on Thanksgiving eve.

OK, let’s get started, Ryan finally said, in his deep, but slightly-nasally voice. There room quieted to absolute silence in a nanosecond.

"All right, the first thing that I wanted to do is address some rumors that I’ve gotten wind of lately. There are apparently a lot of people in the agency who are saying that we’re about to lay off half our folks, somebody in Accounting heard something about the entire Accounting department being let go, which, I don’t know where that came from. It’s Accounting. Who else is going to handle the money? We’re not turning it over to Creatives, that’s for sure. They’re called ‘Creatives,’ for crying out loud. No telling where our money would end up."

There were a few courtesy chuckles in the crowd, but most people were too busy waiting for the ax to fall.

So instead of rumors, he continued, let’s take a look at what the real situation is here at M&B, and see if we can’t sweep those rumors away with some reality.

He picked up a laser pointer from the podium and clicked the spacebar on the laptop. The screen switched from the intro slide to a line graph, showing the agency’s revenues by quarter over the past year. As the tracing line got closer to the present time, the revenues got lower and lower.

Sickening lump number three.

He went on to another slide, showing the cost of medical and 401(k) benefits to the agency, and another slide showing the decline in the number of our clients due to the economic downturn, and another showing an article where experts were trying to forecast the economic downturn. I turned my head and quickly scanned the room. Most of the people seemed to be on the same page as I was. They had tuned out. No one was paying attention. Ryan was like that teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons: "Whah Whah Whah…."

You know those situations when you’ve stopped listening to someone, and even you don’t realize it, until someone calls you on it, or does or says something completely out of character? That’s what happened in that room. All of a sudden, Ryan did something that got everyone’s attention immediately. He sighed. Then he reached up with a remote, and shut off the projector. The screen went blank. Expressions in the room went from blank stares to raised eyebrows. Oh, crap, we’re gonna get fired for not paying attention! Shoot, he can rescue the company by getting rid of forty-one daydreamers in one swoop! An insane thought, but that’s the kind of panicked reasoning that goes through your head in that situation.

Instead of a raised voice, Ryan had this weird, down-to-earth resignation in his voice. You know what? You guys don’t want to hear all this. And I don’t feel good standing up here doing this. I’ll be honest with you, I did all this because I’ve never had to do this before, so I found some posting on a LISTSERV from a CEO at some company in Minnesota, saying, in effect, that you had to soften the blow before you start laying people off, by doing all these charts and graphs and song and dance to explain why your company’s in the shape it’s in. That’s bullshit. Several of us jumped back in surprise. Ryan rarely cursed. When he did, he meant it.

I had Charlie make up all these graphs and slides and whatnot yesterday, then I went home and sat around Dina and the kids studying all this stuff like I was rehearsing for a play. But this is not a play. This is real. People were still not sure what was going on, but absolutely no one was tuned out. "One thing I always tell you guys is that we can stretch the truth out in the real world, for our clients, but inside these walls, we have to be honest. We have to be responsible. We have to be professional, or what we do means nothing. And all our clients are going to run down the street to somebody else.

So, here’s some honesty: we’re not in great shape right now. We’re not about to fall apart, but we’re a little shaky. No, Kelly Thomas was not laid off, but she found out about layoffs, so she took early retirement. So what happens to you? Well, PowerPoint presentations aren’t going to put food on your table, so I’ll be straight with you. We will be reevaluating positions throughout the company, and over the next two months, there will be a reduction of force, probably about seventy-five to eighty employees.

Sickening lump four, and counting. There were about four hundred employees in the agency,